


In Memoriam

by All_I_need



Series: Death and Resurrection [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cats, Dealing With Guilt, Friendship, Grief/Mourning, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-29
Updated: 2018-03-01
Packaged: 2019-03-11 04:28:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13516587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/All_I_need/pseuds/All_I_need
Summary: In the chaos following Sherlock Holmes' suicide, Sergeant Sally Donovan is left with the task of breaking the news to Mrs Hudson. It changes things.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have always felt that Sally Donovan has come a bit short on the show, so here's a story about the two years Sherlock was absent, told exclusively from her point of view.
> 
> For those of you awaiting more Johnlock from me: You will find hints of it here, there is a oneshot coming soon and I'm currently working on several larger multi-chapter stories. Hold on to your horses, people!

******  
  
 _“Disarmed, I realized how easily you can lose all animosity toward someone you've deemed your enemy as soon as that person stops behaving as such.”_  
 _\- Carlos Ruiz Zafón_  
  
******

  
Later, Sally doesn't remember who told her or how she heard or where she was at the time. Everything is chaos and Lestrade's cursing in between random bursts of denial and the entire Yard is in a state of disquiet.  
  
There are people shouting into telephones and leaning over the partitions between their desks to talk, voices either reverently hushed or shrill with excitement. Lestrade's face is pale and his eyes are wide and as the first shock fades, the look he throws her carries accusation. It feels like a punch to the chest.  
  
She doesn't remember what happened then, has no recollection of leaving the building with him or getting into the car.  
  
Suddenly, she's standing outside St Bart's Hospital and there's police tape cordoning off a piece of pavement and all she can do is stare at the pool of blood on the ground, uncomprehending. She tilts her head up and stares at the edge of the roof. The sky is blue and the sun is shining and Sherlock Holmes' blood is already drying on the pavement.  
  
There's a muffled "Oh god" somewhere to her left and she dimly recognises Lestrade's voice.  
  
She blinks and they're inside the building, standing outside the morgue they have visited countless times before. Never for something like this. The linoleum floor looks sickly green to her, much like Lestrade's face.  
  
A lone, sunken figure is sitting on one of the chairs in the hallway. It takes her two attempts to recognise John Watson.  
  
He looks as dead as the Freak is, his face pale and drawn. His hands are shaking. So are his shoulders.  
  
She turns away so she won't have to see.  
  
Turning away proves to be a mistake. Her gaze falls straight through the window in the door and onto the steel table.  
  
He is still wearing his clothes, that stupid, pompous coat and that blue scarf she has seen him drag through blood and gore and dirt more often than she can count. The pathologist, that young woman who liked him so much - what's her name? Mandy? Molly - turns his head with gentle hands and Sally wishes she hadn't. There is blood on his face and on the side of his head. His curls are matted with it. His scarf, too.  
  
Sally feels sick to her stomach. She never wanted this to happen.  
  
Abruptly, she turns her back on the window, on the body. She doesn't want to see the grey matter leaking from his skull. She tries to remember that he betrayed them, that he led them along on a merry chase for all the years they have known him. It's hard to recall his wrongdoings when he is still and unmoving for the first time since she met him.  
  
John is staring at her. Through her, rather. He looks like someone who woke up from a terrible nightmare only to find out the nightmare he's living in is worse than the one he just escaped from.  
  
"Are you happy now? You did this. This is your fault." He croakes, voice catching on the lump of grief in his throat.  
  
She isn't happy. But she can't deny that he is right.  
  
"Is there anyone who needs to be informed?," Lestrade asks, voice strangled. He's struggling to stay professional and Sally knows he won't be doing the informing. Not this time. "His family? How about your housekeeper?"  
  
"His- his brother will already know," John rasps. "I ... Mrs Hudson ..." He breaks off, shakes his head.  
  
Lestrade turns to Sally and nods. He doesn't need to issue a command. She nods back, turns on her heel and leaves. There is nothing she can do here. She doesn't want to stay. She doesn't want to go to his flat, either.  
  
No one asks for her opinion.

*****

  
Baker Street is quiet this early in the morning, although Marylebone Road is its usual hustle and bustle.  
  
Sally parks right outside the front door, gets out and goes to knock. There is a doorbell, she realises, and uses that instead. She hopes the housekeeper is already awake. There is no worse way of delivering bad news than waking people with them.  
  
She wonders if Mrs Hudson will be glad to be rid of her insane tenant. Surely he treated her just as badly as everyone else.  
  
 _'Don't make assumptions,'_ she reminds herself. _'This isn't the time for personal opinions.'_  
  
She's just going to deliver the news, maybe offer a tissue and some reassuring words, and then be off again. She doesn't intend to hang around for long.  
  
When the door opens, Sally is surprised at how small and fragile the housekeeper actually is. She feels ashamed to realise she never paid much attention to the older woman on the few occasions she saw her.  
  
"Good morning, dear," the landlady greets her, not at all unpleasantly considering what happened the evening before. A moment later, recognition lights her face. "Oh, you work with Inspector Lestrade, don't you? Sergeant Donovan, was it? Please, do come in."  
  
She's ushered into the house before she can even respond to the greeting. Entering feels different from how it normally does. Perhaps it's because _he_ is gone. Perhaps it's because this is the first time she has been _invited_ inside.  
  
"Thank you," she mumbles as she follows the woman into her kitchen.  
  
"Now, if you're here for Sherlock, I'm afraid I can't help you. I haven't seen the boy since they took off last night. And what a ruckus your colleagues caused, I must say!"  
  
"He was arrested," Sally points out, feeling a need to defend her colleagues and herself.  
  
"Oh, pish-tosh!," Mrs Hudson somehow manages to wave a finger at her and gesture for her to sit down at the same time. "I'm sure that little misunderstanding will be cleared up in no time. I know my boy and the only time I recall him seriously harming someone was when he threw that horrible man out of the window. Right onto my bins!"  
  
Sally feels her mouth drop open, momentarily distracted from her actual reason for being here. "What?"  
  
Mrs Hudson doesn't seem at all concerned with the man's health. "Well, they came in with their guns and forced me upstairs, wanted to find one of these mobile phones you young people are all going on about, and of course I didn't have the first clue about it, but they kept me tied to the chair with a gun to the head until Sherlock came and sorted them out."  
  
"Sorted them out," Sally echoes, completely thrown.  
  
Mrs Hudson nods cheerfully and switches on the tea kettle, a look of fond pride on her face. "He sent the two henchmen away, knocked out the other one and had him all tied up and at gunpoint by the time John came home. It was very neatly done. He's a sweet boy, is my Sherlock. Don't you go on telling him I said that, though, he does so like to pretend he's above it all."  
  
Sally doesn't quite understand how any of this could possibly result in a man being thrown out of a window, but she has a suspicion Lestrade might know about this. The landlady's words have reminded her of her actual reason for being here, however.  
  
"Actually ...," she begins, then breaks off. How to begin?  
  
"Oh yes, you never did say what you came for," Mrs Hudson says, setting two steaming cups on the table and placing a plate of obviously homemade biscuits in front of Sally. Something in her chest squeezes uncomfortably.  
  
"Uh ... you might want to sit down," Sally suggests. Why is this so difficult? She has done this dozens, maybe hundreds of times. It never gets any easier, of course, but in the space of five minutes Mrs Hudson has proven herself to be far kinder and far more attached to Sherlock Holmes than Sally has expected and it makes this so much harder.  
  
Mrs Hudson does sit down and looks quite expectant. "You haven't found him, then? I realise he ran away. He can be ridiculously stupid for such a clever boy at times. I'm afraid I can't help you find him, though. He and John never tell me what they get up to. I have to read it all on John's blog and in the papers."  
  
Sally doesn't know what to say to that, so she takes a deep breath and jumps right into it.  
  
"I'm afraid I have bad news, Mrs Hudson. Sherlock won't be coming back here."  
  
Mrs Hudson does look surprised by this. "Oh, but I'm sure it will all clear up in no time, dear! I know you don't want to give an old lady false hope but I know my boy and I know our justice system. There'll be a hearing and a trial and he'll be proven innocent, you mark my words."  
  
Without really intending to, Sally reaches out and grasps the other woman's hand. "I'm sure he would have," she soothes, though she is nothing of the kind. "You see, the thing is ... Sherlock is dead. I'm very sorry."  
  
And as she looks at the kind woman's face, she really does feel sorry.  
  
Mrs Hudson is raising her trembling free hand to her mouth, shaking her head. "Oh no. You must be mistaken."  
  
"I'm afraid not," Sally says quietly. "I saw him myself just before I came here."  
  
"But ... but how? Did he have an accident? Was it someone who wanted to do him harm?" Mrs Hudson is shaking from head to toe now. "I always told him he would get himself killed one of these days. Oh!"  
  
There are tears in her eyes.  
  
Sally grasps her hand tighter. "It appears he jumped of the roof of St. Bart's Hospital," she tells her, because what else can she do? "We don't think anyone else was involved. I have been told John was outside, just across the street, and saw it happen."  
  
Mrs Hudson bursts into tears, great, heaving sobs. Her shoulders shake and before she realises what she is doing, Sally has gotten up and rounded the table and is holding the woman, letting her cry into her shoulder.  
  
"Oh, my boys. My poor, dear boys!"  
  
It's the only thing the landlady gets out, over and over again. Over Mrs Hudson's shoulder, she sees a framed photograph of the landlady and John and Sherlock. She wonders who took it. There is a cake on this very kitchen table and John is smiling and Mrs Hudson is beaming at Sherlock who's playing the violin for her. His eyes are smiling, too.  
  
Far too late, Sally realises that there are no pictures of any family in the room. Far too late, she realises that Sherlock and John where the sons Mrs Hudson never had. And the bastard just went and killed himself and didn't even have the decency to say goodbye.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your lovely response to this - quite a lot of Donovan-fans out there, I see!  
> This story will update on Mondays and Thursdays so you have something to read while I try to finish the sob-fest I'm currently working on.

*****

"How about that dead detective, then?" Sally's mother asks, putting a steaming plate in front of her. Leftovers - raising five children has led to a deeply ingrained habit of cooking too much, even though they all moved out years ago.  
  
It is impossible for Sally to come home without being told she looks too thin. This time, it might actually be true. She thinks she may have lost several pounds in the past five days. When people say that guilt can eat you from the inside out, she never knew they meant it literally.  
  
"What about him?" she asks, reluctantly picking up her fork. She doesn't feel that hungry, but refusing to eat would only bring on more questions and with none of her siblings home - a rare situation indeed - she has her mother's sole attention.  
  
"They said in the papers he used to work with the Yard," her mother says. "You must have seen him around the place."  
  
Her voice is very careful - not even a hint of a question. It's always been like that with her. The more she wants to know something, the less she'll show it.  
  
Sally nods, blows at the piping hot rice. "He was involved in some of our cases."  
  
"So you knew him."  
  
"Yes." She chews, swallows. The food feels like a rock dropping into her stomach. "I knew him. And now he's dead."  
  
"Oh baby," her mother says, sits down next to her and wraps her arms around her.  
  
Sally turns her face into her mother's shoulder, a gesture born of instinct, based on years of doing just that as a child when she was upset and unwilling to let anyone see.  
  
"I'm angry," she tells her mother after a while, her voice muffled. "At him, but mostly at myself. I should have seen he wasn't who we thought he was. I should have done something, said something. He didn't have to die."  
  
"Everyone dies eventually, sweet child," her mother says, stroking her head. "It's not your fault."  
  
She wishes she could believe it. She wishes absolution was that easy. She wants to tell her mother so but the words are stuck in her throat and she doesn't say anything at all.  
  
"The papers said the service is tomorrow," her mother says when Sally fails to speak. "You should go. It will give you closure."  
  
Sally shrugs. She doesn't think she would be welcome there.

  
*****

  
In the end, she does go to the funeral.  
  
She didn't want to, but then she changed her mind at the last moment, putting on black clothes in the morning on autopilot and now she's here and it's too late to back out of it.  
  
She expects John to glare at her, to curse her for being here, to tell her to piss off.  
  
In retrospect, it is a stupid thing to expect. John stares through everyone without really seeing them. Mrs Hudson, who clings to his arm, crying into a handkerchief, sees Sally and gives her a watery smile.  
  
There are few people there and Sally only knows a handful of them. John, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, the pathologist she saw at the morgue. Standing next to John is a middle-aged man in an expensive suit, propped up on an umbrella and looking as if he carries the weight of the world on his shoulders.  
  
It takes her a while to realise that this must be the brother. She never knew Holmes had a brother, or any family at all, for that matter. If there is anyone else, they haven't shown up for the funeral. No parents, no aunts or uncles or cousins. She wonders what that says about him. She wonders what it says about his family. Perhaps they are all dead. Perhaps he killed them himself.  
  
His brother looks serious and carries power around him like a coat. Even from fifteen feet away, Sally knows she doesn't want to cross this man. She wonders what it must be like, growing up with him for an older brother. She wonders if Holmes rebelled against him as much as he did against conventions. She wonders if he loved his brother, or even liked him.  
  
Did they ever play together? It seems impossible to imagine.  
  
The service is short, which does not surprise her. If Holmes ever got around to expressing his opinion on the Church, she knows it can't have been very favourable.  
  
John stands in the front row, unmoving, back straight, head held high. Even without the uniform, he looks like the soldier he used to be. The deception begins and ends with his posture. His face is as empty as his eyes.  
  
Sally stays just long enough to watch them lower the coffin into the grave and start shoveling dirt onto it. She bets Holmes would have been able to tell them everything about this specific kind of dirt, starting from its place of origin to its PH value and how long it's been since the grave was dug.  
  
As she turns to leave, a hand catches her elbow and she pauses, surprised to find Mrs Hudson standing next to her. There are tears in the kind woman's eyes, but her grip is firm and her face determined.  
  
"Come for tea sometime soon, will you? I would so like to talk to you more."  
  
Sally doesn't know what to say, so she simply nods, her throat suddenly tight.  
  
Mrs Hudson manages a weak smile and squeezes her arm before letting go and returning to John's side. He doesn't seem to have noticed she ever left.  
  
Before anyone else can stop her, Sally quietly sneaks away. Coming to the funeral only reminded her that she is at least partially to blame for it taking place at all.


	3. Chapter 3

Two weeks after the funeral, she gives in and goes to visit Mrs Hudson. She can't even explain to herself why she does. Perhaps it was the way the older woman felt in her arms, crying for Sherlock Holmes of all people.  
  
Frail as a bird.  
  
Perhaps it was the plate of homemade biscuits or the way she squeezed Sally's arm. Perhaps it was the lack of accusation in her eyes.  
  
Accusing looks are something Sally gets more than enough of. There is the odd, completely misplaced pat on the back for "revealing his true face" but mostly people just look at her as if Holmes jumping off a roof is somehow her fault.  
  
Perhaps it is.  
  
Lestrade can barely look at her anymore, too busy struggling to hold on to his job to speak to her beyond the absolutely necessary. No one talks about Anderson's nervous breakdown or the fact that he hasn't come to work since the day the Freak jumped.  
  
Her family wouldn't understand, so apart from the strained conversation with her mother she doesn't even try to talk to them about what happened. They always viewed her career choice as a mistake, an act of rebellion against generations of shopkeepers. All she wanted was to do something with her life that mattered. It's not her fault the Freak showed up and tried his best to nullify her efforts. Always faster, always smarter. Always the one to find the missing clue.  
  
It used to frustrate her.  
  
But now they stand around crime scenes in the rain and Lestrade's head whips around every time a cab turns the corner, hoping against hope that it will stop and the Freak will jump out and everything will be back to the way it was.  
  
Sometimes, Sally catches herself hoping for the same thing and that is when she feels the guilt weighing her down. Because they are right. John and Lestrade and all the others who stare at her when they think she doesn't notice.  
  
It _is_ her fault. She was the one who felt suspicious and went to Lestrade and then the Chief Superintendent. She is the one who got Holmes arrested and then failed to find him after he fled. Perhaps, if she had done things differently, he would still be here. Sitting in a cell, or maybe even cleared of all suspicion as his landlady seems to have expected. Either way, he would still be alive.  
  
But he isn't and she wants to punch him for doing this to her, for killing himself and placing the blame squarely at her feet.  
  
Rationally, she knows there is nothing she could have done, knows it was his decision and his alone. It does nothing to alleviate the guilt she feels, deservedly or not.  
  
This is how she ends up taking Mrs Hudson up on her offer. She doesn't doubt it was earnest, more than just the polite thing to say. Mrs Hudson has no reason to be polite to her.  
  
The old lady answers the door quickly. Her eyes are red-rimmed, but otherwise she seems to be holding up quite well. Sally supposes that a lifetime of experience teaches you to deal with grief. Or perhaps Mrs Hudson is simply a very good actress. By now, Sally wouldn't put anything past anyone. If the freak can go on a murdering spree and then frame other people for it, who is to say his landlady can't act less heartbroken than she is?  
  
"Sergeant Donovan! How good of you to come! Please, do come in, dear."  
  
Mrs Hudson seems glad for the company and Sally realises she never expected her to take her up on the offer of tea. Wanted her to, yes, but never expected it would happen. It makes her sad - and glad she came.  
  
"I'm sorry," Mrs Hudson says, which is a very British way to start a conversation. "I'm afraid I don't have any biscuits this time. I just didn't feel like baking." Her voice wavers and she blinks rapidly.  
  
"That's all right. I didn't come here just to eat your biscuits," Sally assures her. As she moves to take a seat at the kitchen table, her gaze falls through the window onto the bins outside. There are big dents on the lids. She remembers what Mrs Hudson said about Holmes throwing an intruder onto them. Looking at the landlady, she can't help but sympathise. It seems impossible that anyone would want to hurt the kind woman. She has only really talked to her once and already she feels protective of her. Surely even Holmes wouldn't be immune to that.  
  
Or would he? She doesn't know. All she knows is that throwing someone out of a window for Mrs Hudson suddenly seems quite reasonable, in a way.  
  
Shaking her head at her own thoughts, she accepts the cup of tea the landlady hands her and murmurs her thanks.  
  
"It's so nice of you to come by," Mrs Hudson says as she sits down opposite her. Her thin hands close around her cup, skin wrinkled and looking impossibly soft. "I so rarely get to talk to people who knew my boy."  
  
Sally blinks in surprise - she's hardly anyone's first choice for a friendly chat about Sherlock Holmes. "But John ..."  
  
Mrs Hudson smiles sadly and shakes her head. "He hasn't been here since the funeral. Can't bring himself to stay there, the poor dear. All alone in their flat with all those memories. That was always the thing with Sherlock. You can't walk into a room he's been in a lot and not notice his presence, even after he's gone. I can barely look at my oven without remembering him sneaking into the kitchen to grab some scones. He had a sweet tooth, the dear. Couldn't walk past a tray of scones fresh from the oven for the life of him. Oh, excuse me."  
  
She pulls out a handkerchief and dabs at her eyes. "I just can't believe it, even now. Him being gone. He was one of these people you think live forever, you know? I couldn't imagine him being-" She breaks off with a choked sob and Sally wishes there was something she could say. But Holmes isn't considered a villain in this house and there is nothing she can do to soothe the pain of his passing.  
  
"I'm sorry," Mrs Hudson sniffs, calming down a little. "Here I go, inviting you over for tea and breaking down on you." She gives a watery smile and, with an impressive display of determination, calms down and returns to a more business-like state of mind. "Now, how have you been holding up, dear? It can't be easy at your end. All those lies in the papers ..."  
  
Sally doesn't know what to say to that. They have only just started re-examining all the cases the freak had been involved in, but as far as she is concerned he has had his hands in all of them in some way or another. She hates being lied to, hates the way he led them all along on a wild goose chase. He probably loved every minute of it.  
  
It doesn't explain why he killed himself, though. Yes, he was egocentric and melodramatic and bloody annoying, but even Sally finds it difficult to believe that he would just off himself. There were still many options left for him at that point. A way of proving his innocence or at least fabricating evidence to that effect. If he has managed to commit all these crimes right under their noses, surely he could have worked out a way to paint himself as the innocent party as well.  
  
He hasn't, though, and now they are left sifting through seven years worth of case files while other cases remain unsolved. She hates him for that, too.  
  
And she definitely hates him for the way Mrs Hudson starts crying every now and then because he isn't worth a single one of the kind woman's tears. She hasn't mentioned Sally gloating during his arrest even once. It almost seems as if she doesn't hold it against her but Sally doesn't quite dare to ask.  
  
Belatedly, she remembers that Mrs Hudson has asked her a question. "I'm fine," she says. "We're all working overtime and everyone is still pretty shaken up. There are a lot of questions that need answering."  
  
Mrs Hudson nods and pours more tea for them both. Sally blinks in surprise. She hasn't realised she emptied her first cup, but the hot drink sits in her stomach, warm and comforting.  
  
"I do hope you will get paid for the overtime," Mrs Hudson says. "I really don't understand why they have to make such a fuss. He is gone already, what good can possibly come of it? I know he didn't do any of the things they claim he did." There is a knowing look in her eyes as she sips her tea. "And so would you, if you knew him the way I do."  
  
Her scepticism must be written all over her face, for the landlady smiles a her. "Oh, don't look like that. He was a decent boy. We can't help the way our minds work, but he had his heart in the right place whenever he bothered to look for it."  
  
And then, as Sally still looks and feels utterly disbelieving, Mrs Hudson tells her about her husband and his drug cartel in Florida and how a friend recommended Sherlock Holmes to her.  
  
"I called him and he showed up on my doorstep two days later. I still don't know how he knew where I lived because he had hung up before I could give him the address or even mention I was in Florida. But he helped me pack my things while Frank was at work and took me to a house he knew was safe, where my husband wouldn't find me, and then he went and sorted it all out with the police. He came back three days later to tell me Frank had been arrested and was going to be convicted, and he handed me a whole bunch of paperwork to fill out. I don't know how he did that, either, but by the time I was done signing my name, I was divorced. Frank was executed a year and a half later, but I was already back in England by then, and I never had to see him again. I told Sherlock if he ever needed somewhere to stay, there'd be a place for him in my house."  
  
Sally listens wide-eyed and torn between surprise and shock and doubt. Surprise, because she never expected the kind woman across from her to have such a colourful past. Shock at some of the things her husband got up to. And doubt, because this is not the Sherlock Holmes she knows and it makes her question which version is the real one. He cannot possibly have been involved in Mr Hudson's cartel, so his actions back then must have been honestly good. When did he turn his back on that?  
  
She wants to dig him up and shake him by the shoulders and scream questions in his face and demand answers. She knows she'll never get any. Holmes has made sure he will stay a mystery she can never solve, no matter how hard she may try.  
  
It makes her more determined to figure out what happened, though. What did he do? What was he involved in? Was he as innocent as Mrs Hudson believes? If so, why did he commit suicide instead of standing up for himself?  
  
The questions just keep piling up.  
  
And isn't that just like him, to be completely uncooperative the one time she actually wants him to tell her everything.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can see, most of these chapters are rather short, which is why you guys get two updates a week. Thanks for all your feedback so far and stay tuned for a fluffy Johnlock oneshot this weekend!

From then on, visiting Mrs Hudson becomes a weekly habit.  
  
Sally can't really explain why she keeps coming back. If someone asked her about it, she certainly wouldn't know what to say. No one does ask, though. No one knows.  
  
And she never has to confess that she feels rather lonely and isolated in the very job she fought so hard to get.  
  
She doesn't tell Mrs Hudson about that, either, but somehow she seems to know how Sally feels. Or perhaps that is Sally interpreting things into the older woman's actions. Surely it isn't strictly necessary to tell her it's good of her to come every time she walks through the door?  
  
But it is nice to feel welcome, so Sally keeps coming back.  
  
"Now, dear, what have you been doing all week? You look exhausted," Mrs Hudson says as she places the tea pot on the table. White porcelain with tiny roses twining around it. Sally has come to associate the sight with comfort.  
  
She is exhausted, there is no denying that. Her back aches from spending hours bent over her desk, filling out paperwork. Her feet ache from walking around interviewing neighbours and possible witnesses for ages in the morning, a precursor to the paperwork. The light tube right over her desk has been flickering all day. It made her head ache.  
  
She sighs. "We've had a double murder in Kensington this morning," she tells Mrs Hudson. "It was rather terrible, even for a murder, and we spent hours canvassing the neighbourhood."  
  
Mrs Hudson pats her hand and offers her delicious biscuits. Sally couldn't say no to them if she tried. Some days they are the only dinner she gets to eat.  
  
One great thing about having been exposed to Sherlock Holmes for years is that Mrs Hudson is quite blasé about murder. Or maybe it's her cartel-leading husband who caused that. Either way, Sally feels she can talk to her without having to censor her words or be wary of the other woman's reactions. She tried, in the beginning, but Mrs Hudson shook her head at her and said: "I have spent far too much time finding all sorts of human body parts in Sherlock's refrigerator; tales of a bloody crime scene won't scare me, dear."  
  
Sally very pointedly doesn't ask about the body parts, not ever. She vividly remembers the human eyeballs in the microwave. One of the first things she did in the re-opening of all their cases was to check if any of the body parts had gone missing. None of them have. By now, she knows that Holmes got them from the morgue, from people who donated their bodies to science. It may be a bit dubious, but not precisely illegal. At least he didn't kill them himself.  
  
"Have you had any success in finding who did it?" Mrs Hudson asks, bringing her back to the present case.  
  
"Not yet," Sally says, shaking her head. It's frustrating but she knows that leads will pay off eventually. It all takes a bit longer now that the Freak is no longer around to tell them where to look. It's funny, almost. He is gone but the crime rate stayed the same. Perhaps it even increased a bit. There is no indication yet that he was in any way involved in any of the cases they reopened, except in the capacity Lestrade granted him - as a consultant.  
  
She doesn't tell Mrs Hudson that because the older woman undoubtedly already knows. She has always believed in him, after all. Sally is starting to think that maybe she is right in doing so. It's a difficult concept to adjust to, but there is still work to be done and there is still a good chance he may be responsible after all.  
  
"You will get there, my dear. Have another biscuit. You look absolutely famished. Are you sure you don't want anything else to eat?"  
  
That is another thing about Mrs Hudson - she always tries to feed her. Sally feels more mothered during these short visits than she does on an entire weekend at her parents' place. Then again, Mrs Hudson does not have another four children to mother.  
  
"I can't just show up here, eat your food and leave," she points out. "It's hardly polite."  
  
"Pish-tosh!" Mrs Hudson tells her. "Turning down a perfectly good meal, now that is hardly polite. What could possibly be wrong with spending time with an old lady and keeping her entertained every now and again?" More softly, she adds: "You really don't have to, you know?"  
  
"I know," Sally says, leaning forward to squeeze one gentle, wrinkled hand. "But I like being here. It's ... nice," she finishes lamely.  
  
It doesn't even begin to describe what it really feels like. Sometimes, coming to Baker Street is the only time she feels any sense of peace in the entire week. Considering her previous attitude to this very address, the irony is almost painful.  
  
"This house is just too quiet now," Mrs Hudson continues, smiling sadly. "I used to wake up at least twice a week to the sound of something exploding in the kitchen upstairs. And have you seen what he did to the wall? I can't bring myself to have the bullet holes covered up, sad as it sounds."  
  
By now, Sally barely blinks at the casual mention of the madness that was Sherlock Holmes between cases. Of course it was between cases. She knows because she has seen him working cases and he never would have stopped in order to make anything explode or shoot at the walls. It might have disrupted his thinking process.  
  
"John still hasn't come by?" she asks instead of offering a direct response.  
  
Mrs Hudson sniffs and shakes her head and Sally wants to kick herself for making this woman sad. "I understand, of course. He can't face coming back to an empty home. I don't blame him for that. I wouldn't want to return to the house my Frank and I shared in Florida, either. It just doesn't seem right, and I didn't care for him half as much as the boys did for each other."  
  
This, however, is news to Sally. "Wha-"  
  
"Oh, they never said anything, of course," Mrs Hudson tells her, waving her question off with a flutter of her hands. "John was too busy dragging his chain of girlfriends in and out, and poor Sherlock probably never had a clue about what was happening. But I saw it, plain as day." She smiles sadly. "Another year, maybe two, and one of them might have seen it, too."  
  
"I saw it, too." The confession slips out before Sally realises she's about to speak.  
  
There is no point in taking it back. It is the truth, screwed and sad as it may be. She doesn't care about who people love, but she is convinced John could have done a lot better. Maybe, now that Sherlock is permanently gone, he will.  
  
And maybe, when enough time has passed, Sally will manage to forget that it's her fault the two men never got a chance to figure it out.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Halfway point already! Thank you for giving this a chance - let's see what else life has in store for Sally, shall we?

A couple of weeks later, Sally is out for coffee with her oldest sister when she sees John walk past the café. She only notices him because Michelle has gone to the loo and she is passing the time by watching people.  
  
It takes her a second to recognise him and when she does, she instantly understands why none of them have seen him since the funeral.  
  
His eyes and cheeks are sunken in, he hasn't shaved in at least four days, his clothes seem two sizes too big on him. He looks like he is the one they buried.  
  
She thought she had gotten used to the guilt but now it slams into her all over again, leaving her breathless. This is her fault. Hers and Anderson's, who won't return her calls. It doesn't matter what she thinks about Sherlock Holmes - John is the one who suffers and he has never been anything but kind to her.  
  
She remembers how he patched her up after a suspect they were chasing down attacked her with a knife. The cut was fairly shallow, but he focused all his attention on it, cleaning out the wound and wrapping it up with capable hands. It didn't leave a scar.  
  
Her left hand strokes the smooth skin on her right forearm now, grateful for one less scar she has to hide from her family. Her mother is worried enough about the dangers of her job already.  
  
But this is the thing she can't get over: John dressed up her wound so well there is no trace of it left. She repaid him by hounding his best friend (as crazy as the concept of Holmes being anyone's friend is) until he saw no other option but to commit suicide. When she thought about John at all up until now, she thought the scar on his psyche would still be visible to her. She was half right. She can see it, but it's not a scar. It's a bleeding wound. And she's the one holding the knife this time.  
  
"Sally?"  
  
She blinks, turns her head to see Michelle sitting down across from her, a worried frown on her face.  
  
"Is everything okay?"  
  
"Yeah, sorry. I was just..." She trails off, not sure what to say.  
  
Michelle still looks concerned. "You look like you just saw a ghost."  
  
Sally shakes her head, manages a smile. "Just thought I saw someone I knew, but it wasn't him."  
  
As her sister turns to look out of the window, she can't help but do the same.  
  
John is long gone.  
  
Sally clears her throat. "So, tell me about Maxine. What's she been up to since I last saw you guys?"  
  
The rest of their coffee meeting is spent chatting about Michelle's fiancee and wedding plans.  
  
After they have hugged goodbye and her sister has driven off in a cab, Sally finds herself torn. Go back to her empty flat that serves as a stark contrast to her sister's upcoming wedding, or spend time elsewhere?  
  
It's an easy decision to make. She can't pinpoint when exactly this became her default setting, but now Baker Street is a fixed point in her life, one she likes going to. It's funny how the place the freak used to live in is the only place where she isn't judged for his death.  
  
Mrs Hudson beams at her as she opens the door. "Sally, how nice of you to drop by! Come on in."  
  
There's someone else already there, a young woman who looks vaguely familiar.  
  
"I believe you know Molly Hooper already," Mrs Hudson says and suddenly Sally remembers that face. The pathologist who had a crush on Holmes. Another person she hurt with her actions.  
  
"I'm sorry, I didn't know you already had a visitor," she mumbles. "I'll just-"  
  
But before she can turn to leave, Mrs Hudson has pushed her towards a chair and Molly is smiling a shy smile and Sally sees something in the other woman's eyes she understands. They're both lonely in a strange, undefinable way that goes beyond the obvious lack of a romantic partner.  
  
She sits down and accepts a cup of tea. Her gaze lands on Molly's thin hands, wrapped around her own cup, and Sally remembers seeing those hands gently turn Sherlock Holmes' head on the slab in the morgue. She swallows and looks away.  
  
"Molly was just telling me that one of her cats had a bunch of kittens," Mrs Hudson says and Molly blushes. Her eyes are shining, though.  
  
"Really?," Sally asks, unable to hold back a smile. "I always wanted a cat. How do you manage to keep them with the hours you work?"  
  
Before she knows it, she and Molly are wrapped up in a conversation about how to keep a cat entertained even if you aren't at home much and how to make sure they don't suffer from neglect in your absence.  
  
By the time Sally leaves, she has arranged to come visit Molly's flat so she can pick out one of the kittens to adopt once they're old enough. She can't help but hug Mrs Hudson on her way out, grateful for this unexpected blessing. The conversation left her no opening to mention John and as she drives home she resolves not to tell the other two women about having seen him. She doesn't want them to worry.  
  
When she unlocks the door to her flat later that night, the neighbour's dog barks behind his door and she doesn't dread the silence in her own place anymore. Soon enough, there will be someone waiting for her, too. She spends the rest of the night googling what she'll need to keep a cat.


	6. Chapter 6

Molly's flat is close to St Bart's hospital and looks exactly like Sally would have imagined it. Fluffy and warm and comfortable. It feels like a home.  
  
A huge tomcat greets them at the door, meowing at his owner and sniffing Sally's leg curiously before arching up to have his back scratched. Sally is only too happy to comply while Molly closes the door behind them.  
  
"This is Toby," Molly introduces the cat currently purring under Sally's hands. "Betty is with her kittens." She gestures at the hooks on the back of the door. "You can hang your jacket here, if you want."  
  
"Thank you." Sally does so, then follows Molly further into the flat and towards her bedroom.  
  
As it turns out, Betty has had her kittens in the wardrobe, where Molly has built her a comfy nest out of a big pillow and clean linen.  
  
The cat eyes them warily at first but seems reassured by Molly's presence. She stays where she is and Sally hunkers down next to Molly, staring at the tiny bundles of fur in awe.  
  
"How old are they?," she asks softly.  
  
"Just about sixteen days," Molly replies, a smile in her voice.  
  
There are three, all dark and fluffy and incredibly adorable. Sally doesn't know what she likes most about them. The tiny ears? The little paws? The tails, barely more than stubs at this age? Perhaps it's the way their noses twitch ever so slightly.  
  
"When they are about twelve to fourteen weeks old, they can be separated from their mother," Molly explains. "But I thought you might want to get to know them sooner, pick one of the bunch and let them get used to you before you take him or her home with you."  
  
Sally smiles. "I'd love to. Really, I can't thank you enough for offering this."  
  
Molly shrugs, playing with her ponytail. "I'm glad I found someone to take at least one of them. I'll find homes for the others as well, but it's nice to know that at least one of them will be with someone I know."  
  
She turns to look at Sally. "And I wanted you to know I don't blame you or anything. You know ... for what happened. It wasn't your fault."  
  
Sally blinks in surprise. "What-?"  
  
"I know you feel responsible," Molly interrupts her. "I don't think many others notice, but I know what happened and people tend to forget I'm there, so they don't guard their emotions so well when I'm around. He-" She pauses, draws a shaky breath. "He already looked troubled before you got him arrested. I think he always knew it was going to come to this, eventually."  
  
Sally doesn't know what to say to that, so she stays silent. Her palms have gone sweaty and she knows her heart is beating too fast.  
  
She tries to take deep breaths, but it isn't helping as well as it should be. A moment later, she's unexpectedly distracted by something heavy landing on her back, throwing her off-balance and almost causing her to fall right into the wardrobe. She manages to catch herself just in time.  
  
Toby purrs into her ear.  
  
Gasping, she struggles back into a sitting position, hunched over so he won't fall off.  
  
"Oh god, I'm sorry!," Molly exlaims softly. "He does that to people. He liked to sit on Sherlock, too, when he was here."  
  
She shuts her mouth with an audible click, eyes wide as if she didn't mean to say that.  
  
Sally blinks. "I didn't know he visited you."  
  
Molly turns scarlet. "No, uh, he just ... I-I mean he came by sometimes when I wasn't at work and he needed something for, uh, one of his experiments." She makes a face. "Severed thumbs or human intestines and stuff."  
  
She doesn't know why, but Sally has a feeling that Molly is lying to her. She can't come up with a conceivable reason, though, and she doesn't really want to know what the hell Holmes was doing in Molly's flat, anyway.  
  
There is a moment of silence as both of them struggle to hide their embarrassment.  
  
Sally clears her throat. "So, um, do you know which gender the little ones are?"  
  
Molly looks grateful for the change of topic. "There's two girls and one boy as far as I can tell. He's the one in the middle."  
  
The kitten she points to is darker than his siblings, with caramel-coloured spots and streaks in his dark brown fur. It reminds Sally of the way her favourite cousin dyes his hair.  
  
She smiles. "I'll take him."  
  
Molly beams at her.  
  
By mutual accord, they do not talk about anything related to Sherlock Holmes again.


	7. Chapter 7

"Welcome to your new home," Sally says as she opens the carrier basket. She has set it down in the sitting room and now moves back several paces to give her new companion room to emerge.  
  
It takes a while before he is brave enough to stick his head out of the basket, but he clearly looks more curious than afraid. Sally thinks her presence helps. He knows her by now, loves being petted by her. She's spent a lot of time away from her flat recently, dividing her free evenings between Mrs Hudson's and Molly's flats.  
  
Coming up with a name for her cat was difficult, but in the end she went with the one that just popped into her mind one day as she drove to work.  
  
As Dante inches out of his basket and looks around the room, she can't imagine a different name for him.

  
*****

  
The next day, she goes to visit Mrs Hudson, armed with lots of pictures of Dante exploring his new home.  
  
"Oh, he is adorable!," Mrs Hudson exclaims, just as she always does when Sally shows her pictures of her new cat. This has been happening since Sally first started petting and playing with him in Molly's flat.  
  
The pathologist has managed to find homes for Dante's sisters, too, so they don't have to worry about them and Sally is free to focus all her attention on him.  
  
He loves having his chest rubbed and isn't above nudging her hand with his head to demand attention. Sometimes when she speaks to him, he replies with soft meows and chirping noises.  
  
Sally adores him.  
  
"I can't thank you enough for getting Molly and me to talk," she tells Mrs Hudson. "I never would have thought to finally get a cat otherwise."  
  
"Oh, don't be silly, dear. You would have gotten there eventually," Mrs Hudson waves her thanks away. "I'm just glad I could help. You look much happier since you started spending time with him. And with Molly, I think. It's good for you young people to make new friends. If you ever want to talk about what happend, you now have two people who'll not only listen but understand."  
  
Sally squeezes her hand in response but doesn't say anything. She has no desire to talk about it. The guilt is still with her and she doubts it will fade anytime soon. But now she has other things to focus on, like Dante and her friendship with Mrs Hudson and Molly. It doesn't negate the guilt, but having something to balance it out makes it easier to bear.  
  
They change the topic and talk about Mrs Hudson's recent trouble with her hip. Sally offers to call her younger brother, Sam, who happens to be a physiotherapist and might know a thing or two that could help.  
  
Mrs Hudson claims she can't possibly accept but does so anyway when Sally refuses to relent.  
  
After that, they talk about her work and how they are almost done reviewing all their past cases. It took them almost a year - she can't believe that much time has passed already - but the results are clear to everybody: Sherlock Holmes was not involved in any of the crimes he worked on beyond solving them.  
  
Once she has finished telling Mrs Hudson this, Sally waits with baited breath. For the accusations, the 'I told you so's and everything else Mrs Hudson has every right to say. Because Sally was wrong.  
  
"See?," Mrs Hudson says. "I know my boy."  
  
And then she smiles and pours them more tea and Sally feels something inside her crack open.  
  
She thought the guilt would be worse now, for knowing that she was wrong and got him killed over nothing.  
  
Instead, the weight seems to have lessened, erased by one question: If Holmes truly was innocent, why did he kill himself?  
  
She starts to think his actions have nothing to do with her accusations at all.  
  
Mrs Hudson, as always, knows what she is thinking. "Who knows what went on in that big brain of his?," she asks, smiling sadly. "I suppose we will never learn why. But it wasn't your fault."  
  
It feels like absolution.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mentions of violence.

Her hands are bloody and won't stop shaking.  
  
She's bent over the sink in the women's bathroom at the Yard, trying to scrub herself clean, but her hands are shaking too badly to hold the soap properly. She develops a sudden hatred for the damn faucets. One for hot water, one for icy cold water, set so far apart you can either scald your hands or freeze them. Who came up with this bloody bullshit in the first place? How is anyone supposed to wash their hands like this?  
  
 _How is she supposed to get rid of all the blood?_  
  
It's everywhere. Her hands, her wrists, the cuffs of her favourite blouse. She'll have to burn it later.  
  
She studiously avoids her own reflection in the mirror. She has a sneaking suspicion there is blood on her face, too, but she doesn't want to know. Doesn't want to see.  
  
There's a knock on the door.  
  
"Donovan?"  
  
Lestrade.  
  
"Are you all right?"  
  
She doesn't respond. Rolls her eyes. What a stupid question.  
  
More knocking. "Can I come in?"  
  
She frowns, stares down at her bloody, shaking hands. Does she want him to come in? He's her boss, someone she trusts. But things haven't been the same since Holmes killed himself. Before, she would not have hesitated. Now, Lestrade is not the person she wants to see. But he may just be able to help her anyway.  
  
"Yeah," she says, just loud enough for him to hear.  
  
He opens the door cautiously, pokes his head in. His face is pale and it's then that she realises she isn't the only one who is horrified by what happened.  
  
"I just ... had to check," he says, shuffling his feet awkwardly.  
  
She understands.  
  
He had to check if she was alive. She can't blame him. A tiny part of her feels better just from seeing his face, from knowing he is unharmed. Physically, at least, even though neither of them was ever in any actual danger.  
  
"I can't drive," she says tonelessly.  
  
"What?"  
  
"I-I can't drive like this," she repeats. "I just ... I need to ..."  
  
"Go home?" he asks.  
  
She shakes her head. Dante is a great comfort, but she needs more than a listener today. She needs someone who will respond.  
  
"Where to?" he asks. "I don't care how far it is, give me an address and I'll take you there myself. Least I can do."  
  
She has never felt so grateful to him than she does in that moment.  
  
"Baker Street."  
  
He stares at her as if she's grown a second head. "Pardon?"  
  
"I ... Baker Street," she repeats, not looking at him as she dries her hands with paper towels. "I'm ... Mrs Hudson ... it's Thursday. I always visit Mrs Hudson on Thursday."  
  
And Monday, but he doesn't need to know that. The fact that so far he has been unaware of her friendship with the older woman says everything about the change in their work relationship since Holmes jumped.  
  
"All right then," Lestrade says, pushing the door open and holding it for her. "Let's get you out of here."  
  
He leads her to his car in silence. Their colleagues move out of the way. No one dares to speak to them but she can feel their eyes on them all the way to the lift.  
  
She curls up in the passenger seat, her hands held awkwardly, elbows propped up on her legs. She doesn't want her hands to touch anything. The blood wouldn't come off. Her hands are still shaking. Her entire body is, she notices. Her legs won't keep still no matter how much she wills them to.  
  
At first, they drive in silence. She appreciates that about Lestrade. He doesn't feel the need to make smalltalk with her, doesn't think every moment should be filled with mindless babble. She thinks it's one of the reasons why Holmes got along with him. He never liked mindless babble.  
  
As they are waiting for a red light to change, Lestrade does break the silence, however.  
  
"So ... this thing with Mrs Hudson ... I didn't know that was a thing."  
  
If she wasn't still shell-shocked, she might have smiled at his lack of eloquence. "You never asked."  
  
"True," he agrees. She can see him nod out of the corner of her eye. He looks a bit ashamed. "Since when?"  
  
"The funeral."  
  
He nods again, tabs the steering wheel with his index fingers. "How is she holding up?"  
  
"Quite well," Sally tells him. There is genuine concern in his tone and facial expression. She realises that Lestrade, too, likes Mrs Hudson. It's difficult not to. "It was difficult in the beginning. And John won't come see her anymore. They haven't spoken at all since ... then. But she's doing better now."  
  
At least Sally thinks she is. Sometimes, Mrs Hudson will still get a bit teary-eyed, but it's less often than it used to be and sometimes she tells Sally stories of all the things Holmes did that drove her up the wall. Sometimes, she tells the most ridiculous tales that can't possibly be true but probably are.  
  
She doesn't say any of this, though. If Lestrade wants to know, he can bloody well visit her himself.  
  
"Good. That's good. And it's great that you two get along," Lestrade says. Still awkward. He sounds like a father who's quizzing his daughter about a boy.  
  
"Yes."  
  
She turns to stare out of the window, then hastily turns her head to face forward again. She doesn't want to see her reflection in the passenger window.  
  
Lestrade cleares his throat and drives on. He doesn't say anything else until they arrive, but he does accompany her to the front door. She thinks it's as much for her safety as for his peace of mind.  
  
"Detective Inspector Lestrade!" Mrs Hudson exclaims when she opens the door to find him standing there.  
  
"Hullo, Mrs Hudson. How are you doing?"  
  
"Quite well, thank you. And yourself? My, you look as white as a sheet! What brings you here?"  
  
"Well ... " Lestrade moves aside, allows her to glimpse Sally.  
  
"Sally, dear!" Mrs Hudson looks absolutely horrified, which is just how Sally feels. "What on earth happened? Are you hurt? Oh, my dear girl! Do come in, both of you."  
  
Lestrade guides her inside, his warm hand reassuring on her back. She walks into the kitchen and sinks down onto her usual chair on autopilot.   
  
She is distantly aware of Mrs Hudson fussing and asking questions and Lestrade speaking in a quiet, gruff voice, but she isn't really listening. Her eyes are fixed on her hands again, red blood on her dark skin. She shivers violently.  
  
Lestrade squeezes her shoulder, says something that could be anything. She doesn't hear a word.  
  
A moment later, his hand is gone and she hears the sound of his steps in the hall and then the door falling closed.  
  
"Oh, my dear girl!" Mrs Hudson has pulled up her chair to sit opposite Sally, a bucket and a washcloth between them. "Come here."  
  
Sally can't do anything but watch in silence as Mrs Hudson carefully cleans her hands, wiping away all the blood and turning the water in the bucket red. It's a red bucket, though, so the change in colour is barely noticeable.  
  
The only sounds are the sloshing of the water and Sally's own breathing, still far too fast to be healthy.  
  
"Shhh," Mrs Hudson coos. "There you go. It's all over now. See? Just breathe in. Count to four in your head. Breathe out. Count to four. Breathe in. That's it."  
Sally does.  
  
As the blood comes off her hands, her breathing and heart rate slow down. But it's not until Mrs Hudson comes back with a fresh washcloth and gently dabs at her face that she feels she can speak again.  
  
"Thank you," she whispers. She'd like to apologise for showing up in such a state, but by now she knows that Mrs Hudson would tell her to shush and stop being silly. That knowledge is as comforting as the company.  
  
"I'll go get you something else to wear," Mrs Hudson says. "One of my blouses might do."  
  
She bustles off again, comes back a minute later with a nice purple blouse that looks like it might actually fit Sally, though it may be a bit short.  
  
Mrs Hudson undoes the buttons on Sally's cuffs and hands her the blouse. "There you go, dear. You know where the bathroom is, get changed and leave your blouse to me. I'll get these pesky stains out."  
  
Sally blinks at her and does what she's told. She is careful not to touch the blood-stained parts of the fabric, which requires looking at it. She tells herself it's tomato juice. _'Don't think about it don't think about it don't think about it.'_  
  
Mechanically, she slips into the new blouse, does up the buttons and drags her hair out of the collar. At least there is no blood in it. She'd kept it in a very tight bun that has long since come undone. But it did its job.  
  
When she meets her own gaze in the mirror for the first time that night, the only thing betraying her state is the look in her eyes. Other than that, there is no trace of what happened. Anyone looking at her now would never know she spent the afternoon trying to hold a young woman's neck artery closed with her bare hands while kneeling in the middle of a crime scene.  
  
 _'Don't think about it.'_  
  
Looking at her now, no one would guess that she still held on long after the woman was gone.  
  
No one except Sherlock Holmes, and he is as gone as the slaughtered family in that house.  
  
 _'Don't think about it.'_  
  
She leaves her blouse on the floor and returns to the kitchen.  
  
Mrs Hudson has made them tea. She takes one look at Sally and moves over to hug her.  
  
That's it.  
  
The moment this fragile woman is hugging her with surprising strength, Sally starts crying.  
  
She doesn't stop for an hour and Mrs Hudson doesn't let go. But when it's over, Sally feels better.  
  
She is in no state to drive, though, even if she had her car with her, or to talk about what happened, so they sit in the kitchen in silence.  
  
She spends the night on the sofa (at her own insistence. Mrs Hudson offered her bed). Despite her expectations to the contrary, she sleeps and does not dream.


	9. Chapter 9

They never speak of that night again but from then on, Sally develops a habit of visiting Mrs Hudson after a particularly bad case, no matter what day of the week it is. There is something about that kitchen and the tea and Mrs Hudson's steady presence that just makes it all easier. It's as if all she has to do is go upstairs and Holmes will be there to sneer at her and tell her that sentiment never helped anyone and to get on with it and focus on the work.  
  
She never does go upstairs and nor does anyone else as far as she knows, but just knowing that she could is enough.  
  
Afterwards, she goes home and curls up in her bed, Dante hopping up to lie on her stomach and purring softly until she falls asleep.  
  
The worst thing is their low closing rate. Not low in a way that could be considered as a bad performance, but ... well, it's just not the way it used to be. With Holmes around, they rarely had unsolved cases. In fact, every now and then when he got bored, he would break into Lestrade's office and spend a day solving all their cold cases. She overheard him talking to John once about a case from 1943 that he apparently solved by looking up the weather reports from that time.  
  
Sometimes she glances at the calendar on the wall and can't believe it's been a year and a half.  
  
It is a matter of fact that they would still have the highest closing rate the Yard has ever seen if Holmes were still alive. And although she has almost (almost, mind) stopped blaming herself for his death, she still can't help but feel their current performance low is her fault.  
  
As a result, she works twice as hard now.  
  
Sally has never been a slacker. Being a woman in a predominantly male field of work doesn't give you that option, but now she stays later than most of her colleagues and habitually later than Lestrade.  
  
It has gotten to the point where Lestrade leaves his office in the evening and hovers by her desk until she sighs and shuts down her computer. He accompanies her to her car and makes sure she actually leaves before going home himself.  
  
Sally never doubles back. It would feel like betrayal and once he manages to pry her away from her work, she's actually glad to be going home.  
  
The only days she leaves on time are Monday and Thursday. Mrs Hudson Days, Lestrade calls them. He never asks where she goes, just tells her to have a good time and say hi for him.  
  
Often, Sally will arrive to find Molly there as well and the three of them will talk about Dante and Molly's new boyfriend Tom and Mrs Hudson will reminisce about her husband and the dog she had when she was young.  
  
On Sally's birthday, she arrives at Baker Street to find that Mrs Hudson has baked a cake for her. It turns out Lestrade came by and gave her a hint because Sally isn't the kind of person to tell everyone it's her birthday. She didn't expect anything and the gesture nearly brings tears to her eyes.  
  
Molly is there, too, and has brought a bottle of wine.  
  
They sit together all evening, eating cake and drinking wine and having a splendid time.  
  
It feels like home.

  
*****

  
  
Two months later, Molly pulls her aside in the morgue. "How long do you think until the news break?"  
  
Sally shrugs. "Won't be long now," she says. "We've crossed every t, dotted every i. We've collected enough evidence to get it done twice over. Don't worry."  
  
Molly bites her lip in that way she has when she isn't sure about something she wants to say.  
  
"I just ... do you think the media will haunt us?"  
  
The idea hasn't occured to her before. "I don't know. They will try and get an interview out of Lestrade, I suppose, but I doubt he'll go for it. I don't see why anyone would try and speak to you about it, though. No one knows you had anything to do with him, right?"  
  
"Right." Molly agrees, looking relieved.  
  
Sally grins and nudges her with her elbow. "If someone does come to see you about it, you can hit them with a severed leg. Or, if it's a really cute guy, offer to use him for anatomy practice - unless your boyfriend is the jealous type, of course."  
  
Molly's giggles are loud enough to draw Lestrade's attention.  
  
"Do I want to know?"  
  
"No!" they say in unison, Molly trying to control her laughter. Her shoulders are shaking.  
  
"You're a terrible person," she whispers to Sally. It sounds like she means the opposite.  
  
Sally winks at her. "And aren't you glad about it? Seriously though, if the press come and annoy you, give me a call and I will sort it out."  
  
"Thank you."  
  
She shrugs. "Least I can do."  
  
Molly sighs. "It really wasn't your fault, Sally. But I'm glad the public will finally learn the truth. It will make all the difference."  
  
The hope in her voice makes Sally wish she could agree, but there is something she has to remind her friend of. "It won't bring him back."  
  
Molly smiles weakly. "Don't tell me you don't like knowing he'll be posthumously exonerated."  
  
There is really nothing Sally can say to that and the feeling of satisfaction at having made sure justice is served effectively distracts her from the fact that Molly never directly replied to her statement.  
  
"You're right. It does feel good."  
  
It's almost as if by working so hard to find out the truth, Sally has managed to alleviate some of her lingering guilt and apologise to Holmes. As if by exonerating him she can somehow undo everything that happened.  
  
She knows it's a silly thought but it still brings her comfort.  
  
When the news break a week later, she watches telly with a smile.


	10. Chapter 10

"You won't believe what happened today!"  
  
It's not what Sally expected to hear upon arriving at Baker Street but Mrs Hudson is so excited she even forgets to say 'Hello'.  
  
It has been a week since the nation at large has been informed that Sherlock Holmes was in fact not guilty of any of the crimes placed at his feet and Sally has given Mrs Hudson advance warning so the good woman won't have a heart attack when the news break. There was lots of sniffling and tissues.  
  
Curious, Sally follows her into the kitchen.  
  
"So, what happened?," she asks as she takes her usual seat, idly playing with her spoon.  
  
Mrs Hudson flutters about, looking happy as can be.  
  
"John was here!"  
  
Sally almost drops her spoon. "Really?" She hasn't seen him in ... ages, she realises. It's been almost a year since she saw him walk past the coffee shop. "What did he want?"  
  
"To apologise," Mrs Hudson huffs. "For not calling or visiting. You should have seen him! He has a moustache now."  
  
"A moustache?," Sally echoes, flabbergasted. She tries to imagine it. "Wow."  
  
Mrs Hudson makes a face. "He looks like an old man." And when Sally giggles, she wags her finger at her. "I know what old people look like, I see one in the mirror every day."  
  
The kettle whistles and she pours them both tea, taking the chair across from Sally. "He even went upstairs, had a look around. It's been ages since anyone has been up there. Dust everywhere!"  
  
Sally nods in sympathy.  
  
"Of course," Mrs Hudson continues, "Sherlock liked dust. 'Dust is eloquent' he told me once. He could tell by the disturbance that someone had been in the flat and gone through their things. There was a camera hidden in the sitting room, imagine that! And me in my nightie!" She turns sober. "That was just before ... you know. I haven't thought of it since, but it does seem a bit strange, even for his standards."  
  
"Did John say anything else?," Sally asks, bringing them back to the topic at hand.  
  
Mrs Hudson looks torn between glee and the kind of surprise that comes when you find an unexpected hippo in your bathtub. "He's getting married!"  
  
This time, Sally does drop her spoon.  
  
As she bends to pick it up, Mrs Hudson tells her all about John's visit. "And he came right out and said he's met someone and he's going to propose. I asked what his name was, of course, and if he didn't think it was a bit soon after Sherlock, and believe it or not, he said it's a woman!"  
  
"We did agree that neither of them saw what we did," Sally reminds her gently. "Perhaps Sherlock was his anomaly and now that he is gone, John is firmly back on supposedly heterosexual ground."  
  
Mrs Hudson sighs. "You are probably right, dear. I am happy for him, of course. I just wish ..." She trails off, sighing. "But there's no point going over what might have been. What's gone is gone."  
  
"I can't believe he's getting married," Sally says. "I mean, he never seemed the type, really. And last time I saw him, he looked like a homeless person."  
  
"Time passes," Mrs Hudson muses. "It's been two years. That's longer than my boys even knew each other. Eighteen months was all they had." She sniffs a little before getting a grip. "But I am glad he came by and told me in person. Whoever this woman is, she seems to have helped him clean up a bit. I really don't know why she hasn't told him to shave off that monstrosity, though!"  
  
Sally laughs and they continue chatting and drinking tea and eating biscuits, as they always do.  
  
Finally, Mrs Hudson gets up to wash the dishes. "I meant to do that earlier but John's visit distracted me so much, I hardly know what I've done all day."  
  
"Here, let me help," Sally says, getting up as well.  
  
"Oh no, dear, I can manage."  
  
She shakes her head. "Nonsense. You wash, I dry. No arguments."  
  
She grabs a dish towel before Mrs Hudson can continue to protest. Her phone buzzes with an incoming call but she ignores it. It's probably a scam call. Lestrade knows not to call her when she's with Mrs Hudson and her family is on holiday. She'll check her phone later, when she heads home.  
  
They work in silence for a while, listening to the radio. The news are all about the lingering hysteria over Sherlock's exoneration and a new piece of anti-terrorism legislation soon to be passed in Parliament.  
  
Suddenly, Mrs Hudson pauses and turns down the radio. "Did you hear that?"  
  
Sally slowly lowers the plate she has been drying and cocks her head to listen. It sounds like someone's at the door and she tells Mrs Hudson so.  
  
"But who might it be at this time of night?," Mrs Hudson asks, surprised.  
  
Sally shrugs, feeling her heart rate increase a notch. "Does John still have a key? Perhaps he forgot something."  
  
"That may be it," Mrs Hudson agrees, nodding. "You wait here, I'll go and see."  
  
She sounds confident enough, but Sally doesn't miss the fact that she doesn't put down her sauce pan before leaving the kitchen.  
  
Sally wants to tell her to stay, to go investigate the possible intruder herself, but she understands the logic of Mrs Hudson going out there first. It will make everything look normal and maybe lure whoever it is in far enough so Sally can take them down if they mean trouble.  
  
She edges closer to the door and waits, holding her breath. Her phone starts buzzing again but she only pulls it out of her pocket long enough to hit _ignore_ , not even pausing to check the caller ID.  
  
Mrs Hudson opens the door to her flat and looks out into the hallway. Sally hears her gasp softly and then comes the sound of the vestibule door opening and then Mrs Hudson is screaming and almost dropping her pan.  
  
Sally lunges forward and pries the pan from Mrs Hudson's unresisting hand, swinging it blindly at the tall man in the hall. He jumps back and there is a dull _twack!_ as the pan connects with his defensively raised forearm. It's not nearly hard enough to seriously hurt him and a moment later Sally's brain catches up to what her eyes are telling her and the pan slides from her suddenly numb fingers.  
  
"Careful with that," a deep voice says. "Someone might get hurt."  
  
" _OH!_ ," Mrs Hudson sobs, shaking so hard she can barely stand. "Oh, you idiot boy!"  
  
Mrs Hudson tips forward but he catches her almost immediately, gathering the older woman against his chest. "Hello Mrs Hudson."  
  
Sherlock Holmes is standing in front of her, hugging Mrs Hudson so tight she almost disappears inside his coat.  
  
Sally needs to sit down.

*****

  
_End of Part 1_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for coming on this journey with me, for giving Sally a chance and trusting me to lead you here.  
> There will be a second part to this, probably towards the end of the year. In the meantime, I'm putting all my writing energy into that angsty, painful piece I have been threatening you with for ages. Brace yourselves, I'll start posting it in May.


End file.
